


Is This the Beginning?

by TheThirdTemptationOfParis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Apologies, Forgiveness, M/M, Post-TLD Fix-it, Sherlock's inner monologue, the HUG
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-16 23:39:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9294725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheThirdTemptationOfParis/pseuds/TheThirdTemptationOfParis
Summary: It took less than three seconds to make the decision to cross the room and wrap John up. It took a few more to stand and actually do it. There was hesitation. So much hesitation, like if there was one wrong move, John would bolt. That he would flee the flat and never return. That, in this moment, would be a fate worse than death.Sherlock's inner monologue during the Hug at the end of The Lying Detective, and some speculation as to what happened afterwards.





	

It took less than three seconds to make the decision to cross the room and wrap John up. It took a few more to stand and actually do it. There was hesitation. So much hesitation, like if there was one wrong move, John would bolt. That he would flee the flat and never return. That, in this moment, would be a fate worse than death. 

John’s shoulders were shaking with the effort of his sobs. It was so much worse than it was at the grave. Visceral, real, unadulterated pain. It was too much. There was a ghosting of a hand up a shoulder, fingers curling lightly around the nape of a neck, another hand rubbing soothingly up an arm, and then there was simply… stasis. That moment, with a heart beating too fast, too loud, too strong, all at once. Chests heaving with sobs and breaths and relief and weight and thoughts of is this the beginning? Is this where we start? Is this where we go from?

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay.”

“No. But it is what it is.”

There was rocking in the standstill of time. There were more tears gathered at the backs of eyes, and desperation not to let them fall. Desperation to _be the strong one for once, goddamn it! Keep it together! Be strong for him, just this once!_ There were urges to pull close and never let go. Not now, not ever, not for anything. To run hands through hair and kiss temples and brows and cheeks and eyes and _lips. God, just once._ The scent of _John, John, John_ filling nostrils and the speed of categorization so fast it was almost dizzying.

Then there was stillness. The ceasing of sobs and the brief second _oh god, oh god, oh god he’s going to leave. This is it. He’s gone. It’s over. It’s_ \-- And then arms around a torso, and collapsing into a chest and more relief and weights lifted and _thank god, thank god, thank god._ There were drying tears on a dressing gown and clogged sniffs into a shoulder and gripping of silk in still-shaking fists. It was torture and rapture, pain and pleasure, loss and gain. It was the tearing and mending of a heart long thought to be extinguished.

Finally, in the near-silence of the flat, just barely heard over a crackling fire, there was a whisper. A susurration of breath on a shoulder, a ghosting of lips so close yet so far, separated by two layers of fabric and _god how I wish._ Just two words. Two words that really didn’t really need to be said because all had already been forgiven, but some things go better with saying, “I’m sorry.” There was collapse. Buckling knees and hurry to cushion the impact. Flashes of thought on the way down consisting of _god, he’s so spent, so thin, so tired. How could I not have noticed? Approximately fifteen pounds since Mary died. God, the man is withering away in front of me and I’m letting him._ Splayed hands on shoulder blades and more whispers, “God, I’m so sorry, Sherlock. So, so sorry.”

There was no need to ask what for. It was for everything. For the years of silence because that’s what he thought was wanted. For not waiting. For getting married. For going back to her that godforsaken Christmas. For _don’t you dare_ and the letter never mentioned. For the bruises and split lips. For everything. Pulling closer, closer, _closer. Not close enough._ “I forgive you, John. Sh… It’s alright. Sh…” Hands running over a broad back and whispers of forgiveness and apology, hushed soothing and thoughts of _it’s alright, my love, it’s alright_ desperately unspoken for either benefit or hurt. Shaking shoulders once more, a deep breath, a covering of the mouth, a long glance up at the ceiling, more tears, and a single, relieved, spent and broken, “Thank you.”


End file.
